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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26631823">waking up too early</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/malevon/pseuds/malevon'>malevon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Episode Tag, M/M, Post-180, just jon being inconveniently gay, shameless fluff, that will be ripped away from me next week probably</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:41:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>953</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26631823</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/malevon/pseuds/malevon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>jon doesn't know where they are or what's going on, but he'll be damned if he doesn't take advantage of the small opportunity at respite, if not just for martin's sake.</p>
<p>(and also for his own, but who's counting?)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>167</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>waking up too early</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>tma 180 spoilers! this almost certainly is not going to be what happens next week but damn it all, a girl can dream cant she?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It is quiet.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon didn’t realize that things could be quiet anymore. He hadn’t had silence, true silence, in over two years, not since before the coma, and even then his sleep was so rare and so fitful that it never truly felt like respite.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But this?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Here, there are no nightmares. No dreams, even; he slips out of awareness before he even hits the floor and it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>blissful. </span>
  </em>
  <span>There are no faces to haunt him and be haunted, no remnants of past horrors toying with his mind, no voices in his head telling him all of the knowledge in the world he has no right to. It is quiet.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he wakes, it is so painfully </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal</span>
  </em>
  <span> that it scares him, just a little bit, but the thing is, he will only realize that in hindsight, because when he wakes, it is honey-sweet and honey-slow, wakefulness coming back to him in a gradual drip, and the first thing he is actively aware of is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Martin.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Of course Martin is here. He had been there before and he would be there after. The certainty of this knowledge feels like solid ground in Jon’s mind, and the weight of his arms around Jon’s smaller frame feels like solid ground for him to stand on. He is warm, and he is vast, and he is all-encompassing, his breaths coming in a slow rhythm that tickles the crown of Jon’s head, and in his half-asleep state all Jon can think to do is burrow. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He smells nice. Like citrus, maybe. The sheets around them smell like fresh linen, like the ones in the safehouse did after a laundry day, after they’d been hung out on an honest-to-God clothesline to dry in the Scotland sun. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Laundry…</span>
  </em>
  <span> their clothes are clean. Martin’s blood-soaked jumper has been replaced with a large sleep shirt, and Jon can’t see, but he imagines that his clothes are something similar. It feels soft. The only word coming to his mind at the moment is </span>
  <em>
    <span>home</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he is okay with that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When Jon nuzzles further into Martin’s hold, there is only a moment of stillness more before Martin stirs, and Jon cranes his neck upwards to see if he is waking up. Sure enough, Martin cranes his neck downwards, and their eyes meet, nearly crusted shut with sleep, their gazes fogged in a way that suggests not the Lonely but simply an amount of rest that neither of them have had the privilege to access in a long, long time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Jon?” Martin asks, voice clogged with stupor, raspy and quiet, and if Jon could drink that up and live off of it instead of statements, then he would in less than a heartbeat. “Are—are you real?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon nods, humming in the back of his throat. It’s such a noncommittal answer. He’s so enraptured by the way that the sun—the actual, real sun—is playing in Martin’s red hair that used to be so vibrant but has faded with trauma and a man named Lukas. In the sun it looks so alive. In the sun everything looks so alive. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon should be afraid, he realizes in that moment. This isn’t right. He remembers Annabelle, and Salase, and this extraordinary pocket dimension slash blind spot that absolutely, by all accounts, should not exist, but right now, the only thing he can focus on is the still-present weight of Martin’s arms around his waist and the way the sun creates a halo of backlight around him. He is beautiful, and Jon is so, so in love.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Jon?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Martin asks, his voice urgent, and it’s certainly not the first time he’s said Jon’s name, awaiting a response. Before he can respond properly, Martin is moving to sit up, body tense, mouth mumbling to himself about how this is a trap. Jon makes a, frankly, pitiful noise, and Martin stops, looking back down at him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay, love,” Jon says, pleased to find that his voice is also raspy with sleep. “Please. Relax.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How?” Martin asks him, but moves to settle back down anyway. “This—this isn’t right. You know that, right? Jon?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon grumbles. He knows, of course he knows. Anything involving both Annabelle Cane and Mikaele Salase in the middle of a fear apocalypse can’t be right. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But right now, he feels… </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And that’s something he hasn’t felt in a long, </span>
  <em>
    <span>long</span>
  </em>
  <span> time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s also inexplicably, painfully, excruciatingly </span>
  <em>
    <span>hungry.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>To his point, his stomach growls, low and long, and Martin, though all of his body language since he has woken up has been tense and suspicious, loosens up instantly and laughs. And Jon laughs. And they laugh, together, in a strange bed, in strange clothes, in the strangest situation they could possibly be in.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How are we going to get out of this one, love?” Jon says around a sigh, having been unable to tear his gaze away from Martin’s face since the moment he opened his eyes. Jon knows he’ll have to look elsewhere eventually. He knows this can’t last forever. But maybe just, just, just… a couple more minutes?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Martin grins. “I thought you were supposed to know that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A knock at the door. Jon starts, and Martin reaches for his hand, and Jon clamps his fingers around Martin’s larger palm. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not now. Not so soon. Please.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Breakfast is on, gentlemen,” comes a posh voice from behind the elaborately carved door. The tension in the air snaps, and Jon feels Martin bodily exhale. Annabelle. “Wash up and meet us downstairs, if you will.” A beat. Jon doesn’t let go of Martin’s hand. He won’t, ever.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Make it quick, if you don’t mind. We have much to discuss.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks so much for reading!! leave a kudos if you liked, or a comment if youre feeling spicy ;) you can follow me @malevon on tumblr, or my tma sideblog @mikecrewe!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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